The Inkdrop Café
by Veriii
Summary: A novel built around the stories surrounding the regulars of the Inkdrop Café, a pastry and coffee shop built in 1968, and still running. Watch as a cup of joe brings all sorts of people together... In the Joy Luck Club universe, but an all original cast.


A woman sits down by the countertop closest to the window with a hefty sigh, and it's drawn out and uncomfortable. She leans on the counter and calls over the barista to place her order; a Guatemalan coffee blend that's pure black. After arriving here, all the lady can do is wallow in her own sorrow and bitterly order coffee after coffee, all blacker than the night sky.

It's an uncomfortable day outside, and well, air's foggy and the streets are humid and misty, but rest assured it's cold. It's mid fall here; the date doesn't matter, not like it ever matters, and the weather is always miserable. The only living things that seem to enjoy being outside this time of year are the ravens that caw with the people's increasing annoyance.

The woman that had arrived earlier says she hates coffee that's anything but a black, dark roast. With a heavy Russian accent, she spouts that it's pure, that it's good for the soul because it hasn't been diluted by anything that should change its identity. That its strong flavor gives it passion, that lets it stand out and give soul to those who need it.

What's there to say? The barista surely can't understand her early morning musings, and this isn't the place for that! It's the pastry shop and cafe down the marketplace just left of the grocery store and across from the sushi place, not some low-class bar with overpriced beer drenched with the smell of Jack Daniels whiskey!

Ah, what was this place's name again? Did it ever really matter? Not like anyone cares- but this woman certainly does. She'll go on and on about how this place needs to fix itself up, how it's losing its life, its blood, and is getting too ancient for anyone. The barista there is only half listening, in case she orders another coffee. Really, what a poor guy, having to get an earful of whatever she's saying since she's wound up on caffeine three-ways to Sunday and surely won't stop chattering like the ravens outside.

It is all about this and that, how she never had enough fire in the heart, or how she was lacking in spirit. How she was never confident or brash to do anything interesting with her life, even after moving to this subsection of this metropolis. Everything she says is followed by coffee, which she downs like it's a full mug of beer. It's pretty hard to wake up in the morning, but she has had to have consumed about three cups by this point!

"Old place- not good for young people," she starts. "They like what is new, exciting. Full of life."

What is she going on about? She has to be in her mid thirties, if not younger. She can't possibly be older than the people around here! But somehow, despite her voice being young and sprightly, it holds a certain wisdom to it beneath the thick Russian accent. The kind of wisdom where you can tell that she has been through much heartache and difficulty in her short life.

"Isn't that the charm of this cafe?" I manage to ask the woman. Even I'm not sure where this sudden burst of confidence came from, but this oddly is something I'm drawn to. Curiosity at its finest.

"Charm? Hah!" She laughs, and takes another sip. "Place has good coffee, but Americans don't like old things. Soon cafe will be gone. No money."

Her English isn't the most fluent, but she manages to bring her points across in a somewhat understandable manner. Her w's sound like v's and her v's sound like w's, certain words are stressed more harshly than others, but other than that it's fine. I haven't brushed up on my russian in years, so it takes me a little longer to get comfortable with understanding what she is saying.

"You sure? It's still going to be used by the older generation for a while." I said, as I nibbled on the croissant in front of me. Around this small place you could see many people around their mid fifties to sixties, mingling about in the day to day life. Working class, it looks to be. It's not surprising, since many people still around retirement age work, but honestly? It's sad.

Looking at them.. They're not happy. This entire place is just oozing with desperation and cynicism for a time long gone. Reading the weekly newspaper even though computers and smartphones exist, speaking in ways that reminisce the 'good old days' when the country was bright and shining in the nineteen-sixties and seventies. The people here live in the past because it's all they have left.

"Yes, yes, but when old people here leave, no one will buy." She said.

"It is not Russia. In Russia we stick to... ah, what is the word…?"

"Tradition?" I offer.

"Mhm. Everyone knows each other, and we all follow these 'traditions'," She said, with a deep sigh.

"Americans? They do not have anything."

Another sip of dark, black coffee.

"They have no culture, always wishy-washy, want everything here and now."

"Can't say I disagree."

Finishing the croissant in front of me, I stand up and leave the money for the pastry with a small tip. The barista accepts the money without a word, and goes back to cleaning the smooth, oak-lined countertop. But before I head off on my way to school, I hesitate, standing by the counter for a moment and just looking at the environment around me.

Something is compelling me to stay, to continue talking, despite my upcoming obligation to head to school. The woman sits there, idly stirring her coffee, deep in thought while gazing out the window in front. Wistfully staring, waiting, for anything to come, to change. As if that even if she is cynical in attitude, she has hope that good will come! Ridiculous, isn't it?

A raven caws outside, screeching at who knows what, before picking up a piece of forgotten bread on the ground. The bird surprised the woman, as she flinches at the noise before deciding on resuming her complaining to the barista on all those little issues the cafe seems to hold.

I finally urge myself to leave, and when the little chime on the door rings, I think about coming back here again.


End file.
